


a cure that soothes the soul

by Eguinerve



Series: fae!Maleagant [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, La Légende du Roi Arthur - Savio & Skread & Zaho/Chouquet/Attia
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Fae & Fairies, Fae!Maleagant, Heartbreak, M/M, Merlin Being an Asshole, One-Sided Attraction, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eguinerve/pseuds/Eguinerve
Summary: Arthur's call in answered.
Relationships: Arthur/Maleagant (La Légende du Roi Arthur)
Series: fae!Maleagant [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618591
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	a cure that soothes the soul

**Author's Note:**

> look, I know that my fix-it sequels are usually still pretty angsty, but at least there is hope! and forehead kisses!  
> (also I'm too tired to proofread it, so like... be warned)

The crisp, cool autumn air slips through the opened blinds, it fills the chambers with the smell of rain and wet leaves. Arthur takes a deep shuddering breath, ignoring the pain in his sore throat. He’s been crying for hours, calling for his mentor, _begging_ him to come. Merlin _promised_ that he’ll never abandon him, but— 

He did. 

Arthur _needed_ him so much, and he didn’t come. There was no sound of his voice in the bird’s singing, no silent reassurance in the gentle rustling of leaves. _Nothing_. 

When Arthur’s body grew rigid from kneeling for hours and pleas could no longer escape his lips, he managed to pull himself together enough to return to the castle. There, he hid in his chambers and curled on his bed, vast, empty and cold. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed since then. His soul is a mess of raw, tangled emotions he doesn’t want to — _can’t_ — even begin to sort out. Deep in his heart, he still holds onto the hope that Merlin _will_ come, will offer him an answer to the question that plagues his mind. 

_How can he go on?_

How can he remain strong, when he wants nothing more than to simply give up?

Never know. 

Never exist. 

He’s only human. He’s weak and he’s hurting. He wants to wallow in self-pity and forget all of his duties. He wants everything to be the way it was, but it can’t be—

It _can’t_. 

“Merin,” he whispers, his lips cracked and dry and his voice broken. “Merlin, you promised…” 

“Merlin won’t come.” 

Arthur’s heart skips a beat. Bolting from his bed, he turns sharply and stares into the inky darkness of the night. He _knows_ that voice, its soft alluring timbre, its mocking lilt, but there is something _else_ there, unfamiliar and chilling. 

Faint moonlight washes over the figure of the man Arthur has no trouble recognizing, but it is impossible for him to be here. It is impossible because he’s— 

He should be _dead_. 

How many more lies Arthur had been fed? 

“Maleagant,” he murmurs hoarsely. “What are you— You should be _dead_.” 

“I am,” Maleagant answers simply. He takes a step forward, and in the light of the fireplace Arthur finally has a chance to make out his features. They seem strangely calm, void of derision and rage, sharp and mesmerizing and otherworldly beautiful. “In all the ways that matter, I _am_.” 

A shadow passes over his face and familiar bitterness pulls his lips into a frown, but that expression doesn’t linger. 

Arthur feels lost. His head spins, his heart hurts, he doesn’t understand— 

He has no _desire_ to understand. 

Maleagant meets his gaze, and for the briefest of moments his eyes seem pale green, gleaming and frighteningly cold. Arthur shivers. 

“Did Merlin ever tell you where he went?” Maleagant asks. “When he decided that his duty is fulfilled and he is finally _free_?” 

Disdain colors the last word as if it’s _poison_ burning his tongue. 

Arthur blinks. He barely registers the meaning of Malegant’s question, it reaches him through the thick fog that covers his mind, it urges him to _think_ , to— 

“He did,” Arthur says. “He said that he’s not from this world—” 

“But he _is,”_ Maleagant interrupts. “He was born here, a child of men. It’s true that he was raised by fairy folk, so maybe he does consider his home to be there… _I_ don’t.” 

Arthur’s throat closes up. He feels _scared_ the way he’s never felt before. He didn’t fear the druid’s magic of Morgana’s witchcraft, but he does fear _this_. Even if his mind still fails him, his soul knows the true meaning of Maleagant’s words. 

What he— 

What he is. 

Arthur could’ve never guessed this before. He would’ve never taken his rival for anything but a _man_ , complicated and driven by his grievances and ambitions, all too human in each and every one of his emotions. 

In some ways, it was _Merlin_ who seemed to be far removed from the reality of their lives or anything beyond his sacred duty. 

“You are…” Arthur whispers. 

“A fae, yes,” Malegant’s smile is brief and vicious. “A _changeling_ , you people call us, abandoned by my magical parents to be raised amongst mortal men.” 

Arthur was abandoned too. Perhaps it was for his own good, perhaps it was necessary, but it didn’t change the truth that he was _unwanted._

Has Maleagant ever felt the same tugging emptiness in his heart? 

Is he even _capable_ of such an emotion? 

But then, the pain in his eyes and the bitterness in his voice seem all too real. There is no hate and no derision when he looks at Arthur, not anymore, but his face is expressive still, far from the mask of cold indifference or even otherworldly wisdom, so maybe— 

Arthur doesn’t know why he’s thinking about this, why he longs to find something familiar and real in this man. Maleagant is his _enemy_ , but what’s the point of fighting him? 

What’s the point of _anything_ left? 

“Merlin and I,” Maleagant continues, his voice sharp, “we couldn't be more different, but there is one unfortunate thing we have in common. Both of us were bound by the will of the Great Dragon and thus tethered to you. When you called, I heard you. When you called, I chose to answer.” 

Arthur blinks at him dumbly. 

He feels like there is something important in these words, but he’s too exhausted to play mind games or decipher Malegant’s charades. He called, that much is true, but not for his enemy to mock his grief and remind him of his foolishness. 

He can’t deny how _little_ he knows about the world he lives in. 

“I don’t understand,” he admits his defeat. 

Unexpectedly, Maleagant’s face softens. 

“No, of course you don’t,” Maleagant takes a few steps towards Arthur, then lowers himself onto the bed next to him. 

The mattress dips, the weight of his body is solid and real, his _warmth_ is real too. 

He _isn’t_ dead. He’s here and he’s real, and Arthur doesn’t know why this is such a relief. It feels a little easier to breathe. 

“I wondered…” Maleagant’s gaze slides over Arthur’s face, his otherworldly green eyes cataloging every minuscule change of expression. “Merlin didn’t really tell you anything, did he?” 

Arthur swallows the heavy lump lodged in his throat. His fingers curl into loose fists, bunching the covers, and he feels— vulnerable, _exposed_ before Maleagant. 

He lowers his eyes. What _did_ Merlin tell him? He spoke of Arthur’s destiny and Morgana’s part in it, he spoke of Holy Grail’s importance and the danger the marriage to Guinevere would bring. If only Arthur _listened_ to him, if only Merlin offered him something more than those vague predictions, perhaps— 

Arthur shakes his head, unsure if he’s answering the question or simply trying to chase away his doubts. 

“Why did you call for him?” Maleagant asks. “What did you expect him to say?” 

Arthur keeps silent. He doesn’t _know_ , or maybe— 

Maybe he’s simply unwilling to admit that what he truly wants isn’t possible. What he truly wants Merlin may be incapable of giving. Arthur asked him before, bared his soul and begged to soothe the agonizing longing of his soul, but got _nothing_. 

He still remembers the ringing emptiness he felt when Merlin left. His job was done, his duty was over, and there was nothing in this world worth staying for. 

_Arthur_ wasn’t worth staying for, and it _hurt_. 

He didn’t feel ready to be on his own. The weight of responsibility for his people, all the consequences of his mistakes felt _unbearable_ , but he couldn’t make himself admit it aloud. He pushed his fears aside, he reassured himself that he still had people by his side who he could trust, his brothers in arms and his beloved wife, but now— 

Now, he is all alone, and no matter what he promised, Merlin didn’t come. 

Why did _Maleagant_? 

“Let me take a guess,” Maleagant says when the silence lingers. He shifts closer to Arthur— _too_ close, and the heat of his body feels scorchingly hot. “I know that you’re hurting…” 

Arthur closes his eyes. 

He is. He _is_ hurting, so much it feels like torture, like never-ending agony that tears his soul apart. To hear this confirmed, acknowledged makes it feel more real, but— _easier_ , too. 

“But your heart must stay true,” a touch of mockery slips into Maleagant’s voice, “for the Holy Grail is yet to be found.” 

“You are cruel,” Arthur exhales. 

Cruel and vicious and knowing exactly where to strike. It hurts because it’s _true_ , these are the words Merlin would choose. He _did_ choose them every time Arthur tried to confide in him or ask for advice that has nothing to do with the relic of some foreign god neither of them worships. 

Was he naive and foolish to believe it could be different? 

Did he create this fantasy of people who _cared_ about him?

Why did he expect anything else from Maleagant who’s always been cruel, who hated him and mocked him and never ceased to make him feel lesser? 

Gods, Arthur is so _stupid_. 

A careful touch of hot fingers on the back of Arthur’s hand makes him startle. It is unexpected, _unwelcome_ , and yet for some reason, he doesn’t pull away. 

“I’m sorry,” Maleagant says, his voice quiet and oddly soft. “I don’t claim to be a good person, but believe me this, Arthur, I’ve never wanted to hurt you.” 

There is something raw and painfully sincere in his words. Arthur opens his eyes to meet Maleagant’s, gentler and more human grey now. They are full of sadness and regret, and Arthur— 

Arthur believes him. For the umpteenth time in his life, when he thought he finally learned his lesson and lost for good his ability to trust, he _believes_ Maleagant’s sincerity with all of his bleeding heart. 

“Have you ever thought,” Maleagant murmurs, his thumb gently sweeping across Arthur’s knuckles, “about the fact that Merlin was complicit in fulfilling your father’s vile fantasy? Why he never even _questioned_ if it was the right thing to do?” 

Arthur shakes his head. 

He didn’t, because from the moment the truth about his birth was discovered, he did everything in his power to _avoid_ thinking about it too deeply. He knows that Merlin regretted the role he played in this, considered it to be his greatest mistake, and yet— 

How could it be a _mistake_? Not something he was bound to do, but something he thought he _should_ do? 

“I hated him for that,” Maleagant admits, although his voice stays soft. “I hated him for being so far removed from humanity that he couldn’t even see his king straying from the righteous path. If he refused to help him, if he talked him out of this insanity, I would be _free_.” 

“From what?” Arthur rasps.

His throat constricts and he coughs, painful and dry. 

“From my duty.” Maleagant’s smile looks a little lopsided. “From having to make sure that Britain is ruled by the High-King who is strong enough to stand up to his enemy and honorable enough to spare his life. Wasn’t I _good_ at this?” 

Arthur doesn’t understand. 

He knows the meaning of Maleagant’s words is painfully obvious, but he doesn’t— he _can’t_. Could it be that all of his life was nothing but a lie, a carefully crafted play? The foolish boy needed to feel accepted by his people, but he also needed to be _challenged_. The young king had to command armies and defeat his enemies, and it didn’t matter that his battles were staged. Only the pain and deaths were real. 

Merlin told him the same truth. He told him that he was bound to advise the High-King, that it was his duty to ensure Britain prospers, and yet— Yet, Arthur never allowed himself to think how much the druid may have _loathed_ this task. How truly _indifferent_ he could be to the doubts and hurts that plagued his king’s heart. 

“That wasn’t the only thing I was tasked to do,” Maleagant says, his expression now void of all traces of humor. “There was one mission that _all_ of us had. It was deemed that lady Guinevere is a distraction for you, that you can’t _rule_ if you put her love first. And so we had to make sure that she’s gone from your life.”

For a moment, Arthur’s heart stops. He squeezes his eyes shut, half-tempted to cover his ears too. There is a myriad of guesses and thoughts filling his head, one worse than the other, but the most dangerous of them is _hope_. 

Even if his whole life was staged, even if everyone he held close lied to him, maybe _Guinevere_ didn’t. 

Maybe she simply didn’t have a choice. 

“The Lady of the Lake,” Maleagant continues, “sent her ward to Camelot, knowing full well that Guinevere will capture his heart for their love was written in the stars. Merlin convinced you to let Morgana stay in the castle so she could enact her plan to push the fated lovers into each other’s arms. _I_ had to act as a catalyst for their affair and then—” 

“ _Stop_ ,” Arthur pleads, his shoulders shaking. “Please, stop, that’s enough.” 

He tries to curl into himself, but his body feels too big and too stiff, and his sobs sound embarrassingly loud in the silence of the room. He’s a naive _fool_ who lied to himself too many times, trying to hold onto the belief that at least someone cared for him genuinely and didn’t abandon him willingly, he— 

Maleagant’s arms encircle him and pull him into a warm embrace, so startlingly gentle Arthur cannot find it in himself to fight it. His shoulders sag, he twists to hide his face in the crook of Maleagant’s neck and clutches at his waist like it’s a lifeline. 

“Hush.” Maleagant presses his lips to Arthur’s temple. “Don’t you cry, I can’t—” 

He chuckles weakly and tightens his embrace, but it’s still not enough to stop Arthur’s trembling. The tears keep streaming down his cheeks. He tries to breathe deeper, and Maleagant’s smell — the smell of leather, bitter herbs, and rain — gets into his nostrils and fills his lungs. 

“I remember when you were so very small,” Maleagant murmurs. “Just a babe, tiny and wailing. You cried in my arms, and I had no idea what to do. I still don’t. I— I don’t suppose there is any chance to distract you with my hair once more?” 

A startled, a little hysterical chuckle escapes Arthur’s lips. He can barely comprehend what Maleagant’s words mean, for _how long_ he’s been a part of his life, but in truth, it doesn’t really matter. 

What does is that he still _is_. He _came_ to him when Merlin refused to, he offered him something so simple and yet so priceless. 

Arthur raises his hand to gently place it on the back of Maleagant’s head, threads his fingers through the soft and silky-smooth hair. He never would’ve thought he’ll crave being so intimately close to his enemy, but— 

Maleagant _isn’t_ his enemy. He never was. He played his part and hurt Arthur plenty, but it wasn’t his _choice_. Perhaps it _is_ one to be here now. 

Arthur won’t ask, because he’s too afraid to know the truth. 

He shifts even closer to Maleagant until there is no space left between them, wishing they could be _fused_ together to vanquish the loneliness. He’s still shaking, but with how warm, how safe the embrace feels, he’s no longer falling apart. 

He won’t _break_ even if Maleagant lets go. 

A part of Arthur knows that what he’s feeling now isn’t normal, that they are nothing but strangers whose fates once intertwined, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I don’t know how to go on,” he admits, his voice breaking. “It’s not just Lancelot and Guinevere’s betrayal, although it _hurts_. Gods, it hurts so much, but—”

Everything comes crashing down. He can’t carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, he _crumbles_ , and there is no one left to help him. 

No one but _Maleagant_ , but how can it be enough?

Deep in his heart, Arthur knows why he was clinging to the illusion of happiness so fiercely, why he refused to see his life falling apart. He chose to be blind to Guinevere’s love for Lancelot and Merlin’s indifference to his troubles, because the truth makes him _weak_. 

The truth makes him helpless, defeated and worthless. 

“ _How can I go on?_ ” he asks the question that _tortures_ his soul. 

Arthur shuts his eyes. He hates the answer before it’s voiced because he _knows_ what it’s going to be. 

_You must._

_Your heart is strong and you will endure._

_There are still goals to be reached, and you owe it to your realm._

Maleagant’s palm slides up his back, his fingers gently ruffle short hair on Arthur’s nape. It’s been a long time since he was touched like this, with tenderness and genuine care, and this is such a startling thought. He was a married man until today, how could he fail to notice his wife’s affection dying out? 

“You don’t have to,” Maleagant says softly. “You don’t owe _anything_ to this world, Arthur. Not even your life.” 

Arthur swallows painfully. 

He’s _relieved_ to hear these words, no matter that they don’t mean much. They mean _everything_ because for once he has no expectations placed on him. He has permission to give up, even though— 

Even though he won’t. He _can’t_. 

He knows that when the morning comes, he’ll pull himself together and learn how to be strong again. His wars aren’t over, his kingdom is still in danger, he has to help his people whom he let down too many times. 

It’s just that this moment, this _night_ , he needs to be weak. 

He needs someone to lean on, and it doesn’t matter who that someone is. 

Or maybe it _does_ , in a way he can’t fully comprehend.

Arthur presses his forehead to Maleagant’s shoulder, breathes in and out, trying to soothe the pain that pulses through his soul. It helps, if just a little. 

It _helps_ because he’s not alone. 

“I won’t hurt you again,” Maleagant says, his voice still achingly gentle. “This I can promise. However much it’s worth.” 

Arthur doesn’t answer. 

He _can’t_ , there is a heavy lump stuck in his throat, but if he could say something, he— 

He would’ve told Maleagant that the hurts he suffered because of him were insignificant and fleeting and left no scars. He would’ve told him that he doesn’t blame him for the things he’s done. 

Arthur doesn’t need to search for forgiveness in the depths of his heart, it comes to him so easily. It mixes with gratitude and overwhelming warmth. 

Maleagant answered his call when he was left alone, and _this_ is what matters. 

The silence between them stretches, but there is something calming in it. Arthur’s pain dulls to a faint ache, and he can imagine living his whole life with it. He’s aware that he’s still pushing a lot of things away, avoiding thinking about the full implications of everything Maleagant told him.

Soon enough, he’ll have to face the reality he ignored for too long, hid it under his rage and masked it with denial, but now— 

Now, he’s too exhausted to care. 

“You should sleep,” Maleagant says. He finally breaks their embrace, and though he doesn’t move away, Arthur still feels a little bit lost. “I can’t say that everything will be better tomorrow, but—” 

But Arthur _needs_ it. His eyes are puffy and his throat hurts, his thoughts are muddled, and he _longs_ for that brief and blessed oblivion the sleep can offer. 

He nods. 

Silently, Maleagant reaches to undo the clasps of Arthur’s tunic. 

Arthur doesn’t protest. Maleagant’s touches are light and careful, almost but _not quite_ impersonal. There is a tiny frown settled between his eyebrows, his eyes gleam otherworldly green that no longer seems frightening. 

He feels so _different_ from the man Arthur used to know, and yet _not_. 

If only he weren’t so worn out, he thinks he would’ve liked for them to know each other better. 

Maleagant kneels before him to take off his boots, and Arthur can’t help but remember this scene in reverse, the moment when he foolishly, recklessly entrusted his life to his enemy’s honor. 

Was it that honor that kept him alive? Or just the fairies’ orders? 

Maleagant raises his eyes at him briefly, a wry smile curving his lips. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “I think about that day too. Perhaps it was then that I realized...” 

He doesn’t finish. Arthur doesn’t ask, even if he wants to. 

He lifts his hips to help Maleagant take off his pants, then shifts to lie down on his bed. He hears the rustling of furs, he feels their weight atop of his body, warm and oddly soothing. Maleagant’s fingers gently brush his temple. 

“You are a good man,” Maleagant says. “A good king. I believe that one day you will become the greatest of them all. Not because of some prophecies, but because you genuinely care about your people. That’s something that the fairy folk has trouble understanding,” the corner of his mouth jerks up. “You make mistakes, but that is a part of being human. And being human isn’t a bad thing.” 

Arthur thinks he can hear the longing in Maleagant’s voice, something forlorn and regretful, and in his heart he _understands_ it. Being human is painful. It’s feeling too much, it’s caring too much and paying for that the highest of prices, but Arthur can’t imagine giving it up. 

Even _now_ , he doesn’t want to give up. 

“Do you think…” Arthur pauses. He isn’t sure if he truly _wants_ to hear the answer to his question, but he thinks he will come to regret keeping silent. “Do you think there was no other way? Could it be that my mistakes led me to this?” 

To feeling heartbroken and betrayed and so achingly _lonely_. 

He doesn’t look at Maleagant, equally scared to find sympathy or derision written on his face. 

“Everything was decided for you,” Maleagant says quietly, his voice completely void of any emotions. “The fairies, they feared the intensity of your feelings to Guinevere. Uther’s infatuation with Lady Igraine was his downfall, but they failed to understand that you’re _nothing_ like your father. I refuse to believe you have to give up your love to become a good ruler, but—” 

But. 

But _what_? 

Arthur opens his eyes. Maleagant’s expression is troubled, conflicted, too complex to understand it fully. 

“But?”

“The fairies pushed Guinevere and Lancelot together,” Maleagant says. He doesn’t meet Arthur’s gaze. “They made sure the two of them met, they made it _easier_ for them to commit adultery, but they didn’t make the choice _for_ them. It was _their_ sin, Arthur, not yours. And no love can excuse betrayal.” 

Arthur feels a faint echo of anger somewhere deep in his soul, nothing but a shadow of emotion that burned so bright not long ago when he defended Guinevere’s in front of his knights. He was so enraged they dared to accuse her, even though her guilt was undeniable, and now— 

Now he has no strength for anger. He’s hurting still, but it seems so _useless_ to argue with the truth. 

This truth is the reason why he can’t forgive them. 

This truth is what makes him bitter and hateful and broken. 

He tried so hard to convince himself that their love was too strong, too pure for them to remain apart, but for the first time, he dares to ask himself— 

Does he truly want their fates to be different? 

Does he want to go back to the time he thought his marriage perfect and never know that his wife is capable of treachery and lies? 

He still _loves_ her. His heart still aches from this feeling, his soul still longs for her embrace, his _everything_ wishes he had enough strength to forgive her. Even if he can’t, not yet, he still hopes that wherever Lancelot took her, she’s happy and safe. 

And yet he’s _bitter_. He’s _hateful_ for everything that went wrong, and maybe in time these darker feelings will help him move on, now they only add to his misery. 

Why no one warned him that _love_ , the purest and the most beautiful of feelings, can also be so cruel? 

Arthur turns his head to catch Maleagant’s eyes. 

“Have you ever loved?” he murmurs. 

Has he ever suffered the same pain and the same joy? Has he left someone behind when he abandoned his human life? 

There is a pain in Maleagant’s eyes, bitterness, and contempt, and his lips fold into a mirthless, lopsided smile. 

“I wasn’t allowed to,” he says. 

“That’s not an answer.” 

Maleagant huffs a laugh that sounds hollow. 

“No, that’s not,” he leans down to place a quick, chaste kiss on Arthur’s forehead. “Please, rest. Until the morning comes, leave your worries behind.” 

Arthur blinks slowly. His eyelids feel heavy, his heart even more so, and he knows he won’t get anything else from Maleagant. Not _now_ , but maybe— 

He buries himself deeper in furs, takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. It feels so easy to let sleep take him, but first, he voices his last and most important question: 

“If I call for you, will you hear me? Will you come to me?” 

For a heartbeat, there is absolute, ringing silence. 

“I will,” Maleagant says, and then adds much quieter: “But you won’t call.” 

The last thought Arthur has before sleep claims him is that Maleagant may be different from other fairies, but just like them he doesn’t really know a thing.


End file.
